I rush to the bathroom, bleeding profusely.
The dimly lit bathroom is empty. Paper towels are scattered on the floor and the faucet is dripping.
I rush to the nearest one and turn on the water. The cool liquid runs over my arm, turning crimson as soon as it hits the cuts.
The sink is red but slowly turns pink as the last of the blood washes away. I lower my arm and look at my hand.
It's stained in blood, the center of my palm redder than the rest. I swear under my breath and reach to get some soap from the pump, but none comes out.
"Of course," I mumble and rinse my hands under the cold water, getting as much off as I can. My hair falls in my eyes and I turn off the water.
I brush the brown strand from my eyes and water from my hand drips down the side of my face. I place my hands on the side of the sink and look up into the mirror.
I've often been told I look just like my mother, by family members who knew her. But judging on the other things I've been told, she was never someone I wanted to be like.
My dad never talks about her. Not willingly at least. He just says it wasn't our fault she left.
It's not like we ask about her a lot, because you can't miss someone you never met. And it isn't like he feels incompetent as a parent, he never says he wishes she was around (unless you count the time he'd stood at the foot of my bed and said rather sourly: "So. Chickenpox. Pity your mother's not here to look after you...")
Sometimes, I imagine what life would be like, how different it'd be if she came back. I wonder if she'd expect me to run into her arms like I'd missed her so much all these years.
I spent a good part of my adolescence trying to create a picture of her in my mind. What it was like when she left. But all I get is the same thing, the generic "Off To Hawaii" visual with the enthusiastic packing of a suitcase and a dash to the perfect plane seat.
Of course, Dad's assured me it wasn't like that. But when I ask what it was like, I never get a straight answer.
And that's gotten me through enough of my life, but I'm getting curious again and I don't know how long Dad can keep me at bay.
I am broken out of thought by the ringing of a bell. With a sigh, I grab my backpack from the tiled floor and walk out through the crowd to my first class.
Suddenly, a shoe steps on the back of mine and I groan. I turn, expecting to see Greta or Charlie and start to yell. "What the hell is your problem with me?"
But instead, I'm met with a tall boy who looks extremely apologetic. "I don't have a problem," He shrugs shakily. "I'm r-r-really sorry." Oh God, I'm a monster.
"Oh my gosh, I'm so sorry. I thought you were someone else," I pause and catch my breath. "I'm not usually like this, really." I run a hand through my hair before sticking it out for him to shake. "Lorraine Finley. I'm new."
He shakes it and gives me a small smile. "I'm Bill. Denbrough." He's very nice and I feel like a total shark for yelling at him.
"Well, I have to go." I nod and let him walk past me.
-
"I mean can you look me in the eye and tell me honestly Dana looked good in that cheetah print cardigan?" Greta blabs to my sister who's looking bored with the whole conversation.
"I can look you in the eye and tell you you're annoying the hell out of me." Charlie spits. You know that smile people put on when they don't want you to know you hurt their feelings?
Greta's really good at it.
I scoff and turn to Charlie. "I'm done," I get up and push in my chair. "See you after school." After tossing the rest of my food, I decided to get my books and head to class. The halls are pretty empty aside from a janitor and four girls huddled around a locker talking.
I open my locker and begin taking my books out of my bag when I feel a presence behind my locker door. A lump forms in my throat and I finish as slowly as I can to avoid being met with piercing blue eyes. Closing my locker, I turn to the blond boy.
"What's your deal?" He asks. I notice he's alone. I don't think I heard him correctly.
"Excuse me? My deal?" I exclaim, trying my best not to draw attention to myself. "I'm going to have a scar forever because of you."
"Talk to me like that again and I'll give you more than a goddamn scar." I blow a piece of hair from my face. "What do you get from treating people like dirt?" Henry smirked. "It's fun to see them squirm." I want to say something. Anything to express my anger at his response, but decide to just walk away. He makes a grab for my arm and pulls me back to him.
"You have plans Friday?" Against my better judgment, I respond sharply. "Not with you."
"With who." This wasn't a question. I figured if I told him, he'd never want to see me again.
"I'm sleeping over at Greta Keene's house."
He furrowed his eyebrows. "Gross. I'll get you from her house at twelve." He let me go. "I never said I'd go anywhere with you."
"I wasn't asking."
-
I decided not to tell Charlie about Henry, mostly because I didn't understand the situation fully myself. I stopped at the supermarket on my way home to pick up something, but they didn't quite have what I needed so my last choice was Keene's drugstore. I was terrified, mostly because the last person I wanted to know what I was buying was Mr. Keene.
So here I am, trying to come up with an excuse to give one of Derry's biggest creeps. Finally, I decide to just not say anything, allowing him to ring me up and send me on my way.
"Pepper spray?" The man peers at me over his glasses. "What on earth do you need that for?"
In case you try anything while I'm vulnerable at your house tonight.
"It's for my sister," I say quickly. He nods, but I sense he doesn't fully believe me. He hands me my receipt. When I try to take it, hold keeps it in his grip.
"I'll see you tonight Lorraine." He says is a low voice. I feel my lip tremble and rush out the door so fast.
When I get home, my dad is getting ready for work. "Come on Lorraine, I gotta go."
I nod and rush to my room, where Charlie is putting on lipstick in the mirror. Gathering my stuff into a blue duffel bag, I slip the pepper spray into the side pocket. With not even so much as a goodbye, my sister shuts the door after I walk out.
"So, sleepover. That's fun." My dad says when we're on the road to Greta's house. I nod. "Yeah. Lots."
"I'm glad you're making friends, Lorraine." I look at him and feel a slight pang of guilt for not making more of an effort.
"I know," I whisper. We pull up in front of the Keene house. I stare at the house, feeling my heartbeat in my throat. Looking back on my lap. "Have fun, kiddo."
I think of telling him everything. How much I hate Greta, how scared her dad makes me. But then I see his face.
"I will, dad."
